LUNGS FULL

​

It’ll be when I depart from this place that Wales

Will trickle out of my lungs

Like a death rattle.

The timbre will not be hollow but filled with

the tides crashing on Bangor Beach

those nights at the harbour with sparklers and mittens

and the basking days of spring we thought would last

Forever.

Autumn shall come around again and I 

with wrinkled palms will stretch out and scoop up

a ladle of saltwater. Its essence a quiet epiphany of

seaweed, honeysuckle and hot chocolates on the Pier.

It’ll only be when that winter comes that Wales will

leave my lungs, and every last breath will be a fight to cling on;

to a time, to a place, to a single moment, when this moss-covered, sea-scaped land

was ours, and ours alone.